Once Kensi is convinced that I'm not going to pass out when I revisit the site of my shooting, she reluctantly agrees that we'll call in at the Mission tomorrow. It seems like an age since I was there. Eventually, Callen and Sam realise that they should probably make a token effort to turn up at work at some point today, make their excuses and leave. Kensi sees them to the door and then comes back and eyes me up speculatively.
"I don't suppose there's any point in sending you back to bed just now, is there?"
Under other circumstances, I would have made something of that and thrown out some smart remark about how she wasn't good enough for me, or that she only loved me for my body, but right now I just don't feel like it. If you really want the truth, I'm getting used to it being me and Kensi hanging around here, instead of just me. So I just try to look as healthy and wholesome as possible. I'm glad that I managed to wash my hair, because it is kind of tricky to look appealing when your hair is limp and greasy. Just in case, pretty much as an insurance policy, I come out with a line that will almost certainly guarantee that Kensi won't banish me to the lonely purgatory of my bedroom.
"I might be able to manage some lunch."
Bingo! Kensi's eyes light up like candles. "Really?"
It's kind of like a Pavlovian reaction. I must try it again this evening. Mind you, now that I think about it, I do feel sort of empty inside. I try to work out the last time I ate what could be classified as a proper meal and decide it was the night before the shooting. And that's far too long. No wonder everyone keeps complaining about how skinny I've got. 'The Deeks Diet – drop ten pounds in five days. It's drastic but it works.". Nope, I can't say that I'd recommend it to anybody.
"I'm a bit hungry. Not starving, or anything like that. But I could eat something."
Kensi is positively beaming when she hears that. It strikes me that she's kind of like a mother whose kid has just learned to feed himself. "I was hoping you'd say that. How about some soup?"
The woman is a goddess. A light vegetable broth sounds perfect. And we've got all those fresh vegetables in the basket Sam and Callen brought over. Simple. Everyone can make soup, right? However, this is Kensi, and no matter how gorgeous and kick-ass she is, Kensi cannot cook. That is a fact. Instead, she rummages through the grocery sack and then triumphantly produces a couple of cans of cream of tomato soup. My stomach clenches into a knot. The thought of heavy, acidic tomato soup almost makes me retch.
"I'll just go get things ready, shall I?"
Kensi's already getting a pan out. She sounds really happy, so I just lie there on the couch and watch her, bustling about my kitchen.
"And we'll have toast, with butter and sliced cheese on top. That's what my dad always used to make me when I was sick. He'd say it was the best cure there was. And I believed him."
She continues like this, talking happily about how her dad would look after her when she was a kid and off-school sick, how she'd lie on the sofa and they'd watch the soaps together. All the while she is heating up the soup, making toast and slicing up some cheese. I don't say anything: I just listen, aware of how unusual this is. Kensi hardly ever says anything about her father, and to hear her talking about him like this, just normal anecdotes – well, it's kind of special. Like she's suddenly found the key to a door that's been locked shut for far too long. Leaning my head back on the sofa, I realize how much I'm enjoying hearing her talk like this, and it strikes me that I'm happy because Kensi is happy. I don't think I've ever felt like this before. It's kind of disconcerting. It unsettles me, to be honest. You see, usually I'm kind of selfish. I live alone – I don't have to please anybody, or think about anybody except myself. Well, there's Monty, I suppose – but that's different. For starters, he's a dog. And second, well – dogs give you so much love, without expecting anything in return. They don't care if you're a selfish, self-centred bastard who wouldn't recognise a meaningful relationship if it came up and shook hands with you. A dog doesn't even mind if you're basically unloveable: a dog just gives you unconditional love. I close my eyes for a second…
"Deeks?"
I come out of my reverie with a start: Kensi is standing in front of me holding out a tray. "You were a million miles away."
She's right. I was away in another world, imagining this couple walking barefoot along a beach, hand in hand, just happy to be together, not even talking that much. The setting sun was casting a pinkish tone on the sand, the waves were lapping at their feet and the air of contentment they exuded was palpable. They were just happy together, happy because they were together and it made me wonder if I could ever feel like that. And it made me long to find out. Sex is easy – I can do sex. But relationships? That's completely different. I can't do relationships. Sooner or later, I foul them up. I know that, so I just stick to sex. You're thinking I'm a coward, aren't you? You're probably right. It's a cop out, but it does have its consolations.
"I guess I was." I take the tray and place it on my lap. "This looks good."
I'm telling the truth. Kensi's ladled out a small portion of soup, and it looks like she's used a multigrain bread that she must have bought that specially. She's gone to a lot of trouble here. It's a long time since anybody looked after me like this. The last person who acted like she cared about me was Nicole, and that relationship was so wrong on so many levels… let's just say that at the time Nicole was married to this guy, who had been my best friend when I was a kid, but was now acting as my paid informant. How's that for warped? But it gets better. You see, Nicole didn't know I was a cop, or that Ray and I had been buddies a long time ago. She thought I was a low-life called Max Gentry. And yet she still cared for me – came by when I was sick and looked after me. And to my everlasting shame, I let her. I knew she was in love with me, and part of me was in love with her. Whether it was the part that was Max Gentry, or the part that was still Marty Deeks, I have no idea.
I used Nicole. I used her then and I used her years later, when Ray got himself into trouble again. And I hated myself for doing that, and tried to convince myself I had no choice. I had a choice. I knew that, and yet I still used her. It was easy – she was right there and she wanted to help and I took advantage of her.
That brief précis should give you some insight about why I don't do relationships anymore. I screwed Nicole up. I betrayed her love. Somehow, I just can't help fucking everything up when it comes to relationships. And I am not doing that to Kensi. No way. She deserves better than me – she deserves so much better than me. Not that this is actually an issue, because Kensi has zero interest in me as anything except her work partner. I've lost count of the times she's made that perfectly obvious. Even I can take a hint when it's rammed home with all the subtlety of a pile-driver.
Not for the first time, I wonder why we couldn't just have met in a club, had a wild fling, with loads of mind-blowing sex and then gone our separate ways. That way she wouldn't have crept underneath my skin, invaded my thoughts and danced across my dreams, night after frustrating night. I must be feeling better, because I'm thinking about sex again. Only I know that I don't want sex with Kensi: I want to make love to her, so that it is beyond physical because there is an emotional connection there too. I want everything with Kensi.
I know things were kind of bad after I was shot and now I'm beginning to think that this might be what the self-help books call 'coming to terms with confronting your own mortality'? If it is, I don't like it. I was much happier just indulging in reckless hedonism and flirting with my partner. And if half the time I picked up girls who looked exactly like her and called them 'Princess' or 'Baby Girl' instead of their actual names, then so what? Nobody was hurt, and we all had fun. They were using me every bit as much as I was using them. We all knew this was a game. It's just that I am heartily sick of playing games.
So I sit there and think doom-laden thoughts and eat my soup, aware that Kensi is watching every single morsel that goes into my mouth. Hetty must have read her the riot act, told her to get some meat on my bones, one way or another. I'm sure Kensi has got a whole heap of things she'd rather be doing than baby-sitting me and walking my dog. She must be bored out of her skull. By the time I've finished thinking about the mess I've made of my life, I'm astonished to find that I've eaten all the soup and most of the toast.
"It looks like you were hungrier than you thought."
"I guess I was." Kensi doesn't know the truth of that, or how much I want her. Right now I'm hungry for something else, and for once it's not sex. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have someone look after to you and to care for you. I want all that. I want to commit. Isn't that a joke? Marty Deeks has finally grown up and joined the adult world. Maybe I should take out a full page advert in the LA Times? "Looks like your dad was right about the tomato soup."
"He usually was." There's a far-away look in her eyes and I can tell that Kensi is thinking about her father, and that she still misses him terribly. I wish there was something I could say or do, but there isn't, so I just sit like an idiot, kind of staring at her. Monty must sense something, because he goes over and presses his body against her leg. Automatically, Kensi reaches down and pets him. Things have reached a sorry state when my dog is better able to comfort my partner than I am. I'd be so bad for Kensi, so completely and utterly wrong for her. I care too much about Kensi. There is no way I am going to screw her up. She deserves so much better than me.
Kensi spends the rest of the day either trying to tempt me to eat or presenting me with handfuls of pills to take. I try to tell her that I don't need the painkillers any more, but she insists. I've got a nasty feeling that if I'm dumb enough to refuse then she'll sit on me and force them down my throat. It seems easier just to take them somehow. But tomorrow I'm going to start to reclaim my life back. This has to stop. I can't take much more of this – of having Kensi here. It's too hard, I realise that now. She is being so nice it's like having a different person around, one who is kind, and caring - not the spiky, funny, volatile Kensi I know and love.
Love?
Okay, let's back up there. Love? Who said anything about love? I'm not in love. I'm not in love with Kensi. I might have a bit of a thing for her, but that's all. Any man under ninety would have a thing for Kensi, let's be honest. She's pretty much my ideal woman – and not just all the superficial things, like her face and her body. No, there's much more than that when it comes to Kensi. She's funny and she's fierce and she's so brave it scares the living daylights out of me. There's virtually nothing Kensi can't do – she just fills me with awe sometimes. Not that I've ever told her that, of course. She'd think I was being weird or having a relapse and rush me back into hospital. Anyway, we've never had the sort of relationship that could develop into love, and we never will have. Love is a two-way street, and I'm driving on the wrong side of the road. Right from the start, I've made these outrageous statements, which Kensi has either ignored or batted right out of the court. It all started as a joke, but it's not funny anymore. I've pushed and Kensi's pulled – and now look where we are. Nowhere. I know this is going nowhere and I know it can never go anywhere. That's the hell of it.
"You're very quiet. Should I be worried?" Kensi's hovering over me with that anxious look on her face again.
"I was just thinking." Mainly about how I've messed everything in my life up. She'll never know what a lucky escape she's had.
She pulls a face. "Did it hurt?"
I could kiss her. Of course I could kiss her. The day I don't want to kiss Kensi is the day my heart stops beating. If I was selfish, I could just reach up and put my hands on either side of her face and we could kiss. But this is a return to normality, to what we do, what we have always done: the comments, the sarcastic remarks, the joking around. I don't want to lose what I have with Kensi, not now we are back to normal. This is us. Not that there is an 'us', of course, and there never will be. Which is a damn shame. But that's just the way it is. That's the way it has to be. Because I care too much about Kensi to ever risk hurting her. I think that I might even love her. I'm no good at relationships, I know that. So it's best that we stay as partners – nothing more. Sometimes I am too heroic for my own good. It's either that or I got some brain damage when I thunked my head of the sidewalk.
"How about you kiss it better for me?" I make sure to say this as suggestively as possible.
"Dream on, Deeks." She leans forward and studies me carefully.
"Like what you see?" I can do this, of course I can. It's almost second nature and it's not like I'm tempted to reach out and pull her in for a kiss. Yeah, right. Nice one, Deeks.
"I like the fact you're no longer the colour of cream cheese," Kensi says frankly. "You've actually got some colour in your cheeks."
Of course I have. You try having a beautiful woman staring intently at you and see how well you manage. "Yeah, well. It's probably because you've been taking such good care of me. Thanks."
There is an awkward silence that seems to stretch on forever before Kensi says anything. "No need to thank me. That's what partners do, isn't it? We look out for each other."
"Sure."
If I didn't know better, I might almost think Kensi had a bit of a thing for me too, just like we joke about. Of course, she doesn't feel like that: I know that because she's told me so, a couple of hundred times. Partners: that's what we are. Nothing more than that. It's quite simple really. So why do I have such a hard time trying to cope with it? After a while, I give up the struggle and settle down for a snooze. Just as I'm dropping off, Monty hops up onto the couch beside me and snuggles his back against my stomach. It feels warm and reassuring, and my arm goes out and hugs him that little bit closer.
When I wake up, Monty is gone, but the throw is tucked carefully around me. Dammit. Why does Kensi have to be all-fired sweet and caring? Why can't she just be sarcastic and piss me off? That settles it: she's going to have to go after tomorrow, because I can't stand this for much longer. Once they've given me the all clear at the hospital and taken the stitches out, there'll be no reason for Kensi to stay here anyway.
I virtually have to unwind myself from the throw in order to sit up, and in doing so I discover my robe is gaping open. Great. And I'm not wearing anything underneath it. I bet it was like that when Kensi tucked me in, just like I was some little kid. Are any more indignities going to be heaped on me? Next thing she's going to be telling me I was drooling in my sleep and present me with a bib.
I need to reclaim my life. And then I need to have some great but meaningless sex. But first, I need to get Kensi out of my head.
He's hopeless, isn't he? And Kensi is every bit as bad.
Fear not, gentle readers, for fate is about to take a hand.
And if that doesn't work, then I will have no alternative but to send in my shock troops of plot bunnies.